Saints Have No Moderation, Nor Do Poets,

I Am Younger Each Year At The First Snow.

I Tell It Stories Now And Then And Feed It Images Like Honey. I Will Not Speculate Today With Poems That Think They're Money.

Poems Aren't Postcards To Send Home.

All I Wanted Was A Little Piece Of Life, To Be Married, To Have Children.... I Was Trying My Damnedest To Lead A Conventional Life, For That Was How I Was Brought Up, And It Was What My Husband Wanted Of Me. But One Can't Build Little White Picket Fences To Keep The Nightmares Out.

And We Are Magic Talking To Itself, Noisy And Alone. I Am Queen Of All My Sins Forgotten. Am I Still Lost? Once I Was Beautiful. Now I Am Myself